


It Had to Be You (Ghost of Future Past AU)

by readercat



Category: Becoming Jane (2007), Jane Eyre (2011), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/readercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage Charles falls in love with a Victorian-era ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the original story ideas I had for Ghosts of Future Past before I settled on a plot for that story. I came across this drabble, still in my files, and the plot bunnies got me.

     Charles has always known that old mansion which he reluctantly called “home” was haunted.

 

     Even as a small child, he had always been aware of the tall man dressed in old-fashioned clothing who endlessly wandered the halls (though Charles had been too young to realize what he was seeing at the time). But since no one else ever mentioned the man, and the man never spoke to or even seemed to notice anyone, Charles had quickly figured out that he must be a ghost.

     Charles had been scared, at first—after all, he was only a small boy and the ghost was very tall, and was quite stern and forbidding-looking. And while the man didn’t seem to notice him, Charles was unable read his mind, so he’d avoid him, worried the man might be like Kurt and would want to hurt him. But as Charles grew a little older and more observant, he began noticing that the man’s eyes didn’t focus and that he always kept a hand on the wall or banister. Charles had wondered then, if maybe the man was always so angry-looking because he couldn’t see. After that, Charles had felt sorry for him, and even though the man’s stern countenance never changed, Charles had stopped being afraid.

     Charles saw other “ghosts” from time to time—really nothing more than wisps of mist or the occasional glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye—nothing ‘real’ like _his_ ghost. By the time Charles was a teen, his insatiable curiosity had led him to read everything he could find about the paranormal. He studied the ghost’s habits and patterns carefully, taking extensive notes, comparing his findings to what he had read.

     Because the man never acknowledged anyone or anything, only endlessly wandered the halls, Charles had determined that he was maybe, not so much a ghost as perhaps a psychic impression—a very powerful memory that replayed itself over and over. This theory made the most sense to the budding young scientist, especially taking into account his own telepathic abilities—which also explained why only _he_ could see the man. Perhaps his abilities were what kept the ghost in this place.  Charles wasn’t sure whether to feel guilt or pleasure at the thought.

     Regardless of whether the man was a psychic impression or a ghost, it did nothing to stop the teen-aged Charles from developing a hopeless crush on the ghostly figure, who he now saw not as stern and angry, but rather as lost and lonely—like the romantic, sometimes tragic heroes from the novels he loved so much (which he stole from Raven, who’d stolen them from Mother). Charles spent a great deal of his free time daydreaming about the tall, handsome man and his sightless gray-green eyes. _Who was he? Had he always been blind? What or for whom was he searching? What kept his essence here in this place? Was it love?_

     Charles also spent a lot of time worrying that he, himself, would never find someone he would want the way he wanted this man who wasn’t really a man. Would _his_ essence one day be wandering the lonely halls the mansion searching for lost love?

 

     When, at sixteen, Charles had gained early entrance into Oxford, he thought he’d be happy to be leaving the old Xavier mansion, finally free from Kurt and Cain and their constant abuse. Free from his drunk and emotionally-distant mother. Instead, he felt guilty at the thought of leaving his ghost to wander the mansion alone—even more guilty than he felt at the thought of leaving Raven behind. _What if the ghost faded without Charles to keep him anchored there?_

     At last, though, he couldn’t put it off any longer—he had to leave now or he would never have another chance to escape. He comforted himself by remembering that the ghost was not really a ghost, but only a memory. Charles told himself that maybe it was he, with his telepathy, that was holding that memory here and that if he left, the man might find peace. His reasoning didn’t really make him feel any better, but at least now the idea of leaving was tolerable.

 

     Oxford turned out to be everything Charles had hoped and more. Here, he was surrounded by great minds who forced him to challenge and sharpen his own already-impressive intellect. For the first time in his life, he had to work at being noticed for his mind. He was no longer always the smartest person in the room, merely one of the smartest.

     But Charles blossomed in the light of these new challenges.

     To his surprise, he also found that he was quick to make friends and he had soon become popular with the other students. He was always in the company of beautiful girls and lovely boys, all wanting to “get to know him a little better”. Charles knew that their attention was in part because he was an Xavier (which meant money— _Oh if they only knew,_ Charles would snort to himself), but through his telepathy he also knew that they thought him beautiful. Seeing himself through their eyes was a revelation. After a lifetime of being told that he was gawky and skinny, short and plain—it was a heady feeling to be wanted and he took full advantage of the many offers which came his way.

     His worries about not finding anyone he’d want the way he wanted his ghost were put to rest (at least in part) because, like all teenagers, Charles fell in and out of love on an almost daily basis. And if one girl or boy broke his heart, so what? There was always another, willing to pick up the pieces of that broken heart. More often than not, though, it was Charles doing the heart-breaking—he simply couldn’t stick to one person for very long.

He didn’t _mean_ to be fickle: it’s just that he loved that rush from meeting someone new and falling headlong into love. But as soon as the newness wore off he was ready to move on. He liked it best when he met someone like him, someone who just wanted to enjoy the moment and part friends— _they_ knew how to play the game, and no-one’s heart got broken. His least favorite were those intense, broody, moody boys, oh-so-lovely and tragic. He always fell for them _hard_ and they _always_ broke his heart. They just reminded him too much of the one he could never have, while at the same time being unable to live up to the image of his fantasy.

     Oh, yes. Charles had never been so free and happy as he was at Oxford, and he put off returning to the mansion as long as he could. If Mother would have let Raven move to Oxford with him, he would _never_ have returned. He’d even gone so far as to beg, but Mother had refused.

     He’d finally gotten over the crush on his ghost (so he told himself), he had plenty of friends, plenty of boy-and-girlfriends, his classes were amazing, and his telepathic abilities were growing by leaps and bounds. Except for Raven’s presence, he had everything he wanted here at Oxford. Life was golden for Charles Francis Xavier.

 

   Then, at the end of his second year, Raven called to inform him that Mother had passed away (Kurt had died shortly after Charles left for Oxford—Charles did not attend the funeral). Charles did not want to attend _this_ funeral—he and his mother had no love lost between them by this point. But he _did_ love his sister and could not in good conscience, leave Raven to handle everything herself, so he told her that he would be back (not home, but ‘back’) straightaway.

 

     After a dismal funeral, which all the right people had attended out of respect for the Xavier fortune (Sharon, herself, had long-ceased to have any friends), Charles shook hands with all of the attendees and said all of the right words as he listened to the insincere condolences and platitudes. Touch made his telepathy stronger, so in spite of his own near-indifference to the loss of his mother, he was mildly nauseated by some of the thoughts he was hearing (more than a few about _him_ and how he had nicely he had ‘grown up’).

     He couldn’t wait to get away from these disgusting people. Raven had already gotten the right idea and had taken to bed with a migraine. Thankfully he had an out, as he was soon due to meet with the estate’s attorneys for the reading of the will (they weren’t letting any grass grow under their feet—no doubt slavering at the thought of their sizable retainer).

 

     A couple of hours later, 18-year-old Charles Xavier was a multi-billionaire with controlling interests in Xavier Industries, owning the lion’s share of stock in the company. He was still in partly in shock—he’d just always assumed that Kurt had run through his father’s fortune and had run the company into the ground (he’d only ever delved into the unpleasantness that was Kurt Marko’s mind long enough to know if he and Raven should run for cover).

     The best Charles had been hoping for was to not spend the rest of his life paying off Kurt and Sharon’s no-doubt massive debts. But Brian Xavier (perhaps out of guilt for the experiments he had performed on his young son) had put the bulk of his fortune into trust for Charles—where it had remained untouched all these years, earning interest.

 _No wonder Kurt had hated him so much._ After all, Kurt had married Sharon for her money. It must have been a bitter pill to swallow when Kurt had found out that all she had was a yearly allowance to live on, yet he couldn’t leave her because it was still more than he had before. Kurt hadn’t even been able to get any money out of the house or properties or fancy cars or expensive artwork—all of that had been left in trust to Charles, too.

 

     In spite of the vehement protests of the attorneys, Charles had immediately signed half of his fortune over to Raven (following his father’s example and putting most of in trust, as Raven was too young for that much money yet). Their protests abruptly ceased when Charles had merely quirked an eyebrow and reminded them that it was his money to do with as he pleased—including using it to retain new counsel if he felt the need.

     With that statement Charles made it clear to all that he was no longer the shy, awkward, withdrawn child they’d remembered, but a man (albeit young) who had a great deal of power... and the backbone to wield it.

     Once he had everyone’s rapt attention, he’d ordered a will drawn up that left the remaining half of his fortune to Raven in the event of his death. If he did nothing else in this world, he would see to it that the sister of his heart would want for nothing.

 

     After the attorneys had left, Charles finally allowed himself to slump down in his chair and rub his temples. His head ached terribly, both from stress and from trying to shield himself from all of the nasty thoughts he’d been forced to “hear” today.

     Alone at last, it was silent in his head for the first time since he’d arrived back at the mansion. Raven was in a deep, dreamless sleep and the servants had been given the day off—everyone was gone. His couldn’t begin describe his relief. He could feel the stress of the day falling away and the dam that had been holding back tears he didn’t even know he had, broke. He laid his head on the desk and cried—not so much out of sorrow at his mother’s death (though, to his to his surprise, it _was_ there) but out of relief, even though he knew that relief was only temporary. When Charles had finally cried himself out, he sat up and wiped his eyes, suddenly so exhausted he wasn’t sure if he could even make it to his old bedroom, much less back to his hotel (he’d refused to stay at the mansion, though now it doesn’t look like he’s going to have a choice).

     He at least managed to make it to the study’s settee and was soon in a sleep as deep and dreamless as Ravens’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles remembers why he hates the Xavier mansion so much and thinks he has nothing worth returning for...

     The next morning Charles wakes still exhausted in spite of his deep sleep.  They’ve a lot to do today, but he decides to let Raven sleep in, knowing that her migraine hasn’t eased up—he didn’t break his promise about reading her mind, but he couldn’t help feeling the pain of her headache even through the fog of her deep sleep.  And his motives for letting her sleep aren’t entirely selfless—he’s taking the opportunity to relish in a few blessed moments of solitude, knowing that from now on he will have precious little time to himself.

     Wanting nothing more than to curl up into ball and sleep just a little longer, Charles forces himself to get up and start preparing for what is sure to be a mind-numbing meeting with the family attorneys.  He’s already decided that one of his first orders of business will be to fire the people who’d been in charge of managing the estate.  He has no love for this house ( _‘house’,_ never home), still, he is disgusted by the way Kurt and Mother let the place fall into such disrepair.  Except for the areas of the mansion that guests might see, the place is in shambles.  He supposes, though, that the state of the mansion couldn’t be a better monument to who they were in life—lovely on the surface, but ugly and ruined when you bother to really look inside.

     Even though Charles has never been happy here, he finds that he can’t just let the place fall to further ruin (already, a nebulous half-formed thought of a safe place for people like Rave and him—people who are _different_ —is brewing in his mind).  They will have to assess the property and determine what immediate repairs must be made to the crumbling old heap.  Then it must be decided which of the furnishings and artwork can be saved and what is beyond repair, what can be donated and what must go out for the rubbish collectors.  

     Peering into some of the side rooms near the study, he can’t hide his grimace of disgust when he spies the mountain furnishings and old books, all covered with a thick layer of dust, and sprinkled generously with rodent droppings. “Good Lord! I wish I could just have this place bulldozed!”

     

     As he walks the deserted halls on the way to his old bedroom in the East wing, in spite of (or perhaps because of) growing up here, Charles is very aware of how alone he is now.  Rather, how alone he _should_ be.  But he knows for a fact that there are unexplained things here, so he shrugs it off.  He supposes that in his time away, he had forgotten that strange sensation of being always watched.  At any rate, he’d challenge anyone not to be creeped out by the austere family portraits lining the halls of the dank, cavernous old mansion.  Generations of Xaviers, all glaring down at Charles in disapproval, no doubt judging him for being _different_.

 _Or perhaps they look so unhappy because of the stick up their collective arse,_ Charles thinks.

     He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on his ghost, whom Charles hasn’t seen returning to the Xavier mansion—and he ignores the pang in his heart at the knowledge that the ghost must be well and truly gone.  He tries to comfort himself with the thought that perhaps the man, whoever he was in life, is now at peace.  Charles laughs (though to anyone listening it wouldn’t sound happy), as he realizes, with irony, that his boyhood fear has been realized:  here he is, wandering the lonely halls of the mansion, pining for lost love.

     Occupied by that maudlin thought, he finally reaches what was once his old bedroom.  He opens the door and flips on the light.  “Jesus!” he breathes out, not sure if it’s a curse or prayer, as he surveys the damage.

     Someone had been very, _very_ angry with Charles. 

 

     His bedroom has been systematically _destroyed_.  There is not one item which has not been smashed beyond repair.  Broken glass, splintered wood, and other debris litters the floor.  Holes had been punched through the walls.  His mattress, cut open and gutted.  The few of his belongings that he’d left behind when he went to Oxford had been destroyed.  Words are scrawled across the walls:   _‘Faggot’, ‘Queer’, ‘Cocksucker’_ (just to hit the highlights).  His clothing, drapery, and bedding had been slashed to ribbons.  Worse, his beloved books had been literally ripped apart, the pages shredded and piled along with his torn clothing onto the ruins of his bed (which from the scorch marks, it appears the vandal attempted to, unsuccessfully, set afire).

     Feeling numb with shock, Charles creeps forward to inspect a torn book laying atop the pile, and discovers then what else the vandal had done to his belongings.  He gags and barely makes it out into the corridor before he falling to his knees, retching.

      _Cain!_

     He was the only person who hated Charles this much.  He had hated Charles even more than Kurt had hated him.  Charles had stood in the way of Kurt’s money and Kurt hated him for that, but Cain’s hatred was born of something else: _Fear_.  Charles had made Cain _fear_ him.

     Still kneeling in the corridor, Charles gags again, moaning and clutching his stomach, as unbidden, the memory comes to him:

_Cain pressing hard against his hip.  Cain’s hot breath in his ear, whispering:  “I saw you kissing the cook’s son.  I never realized how pretty you are, Charles, like a girl.”_

 

     What he had seen in that twisted mind had terrified him.  It was the first time Charles had used his telepathy to hurt someone.  Doing it had made him sick for days after, but he had wanted Cain to be very, _very_ clear about what Charles could do...what he  _would_ do—what would happen—if Cain _ever_ made the mistake of touching him again, or Raven.  Charles had been fourteen. 

     And Cain _had_ never touched him again.  No, never _touched_ , but he watched.  Oh, he _watched_.  And, oh how he _hated_ Charles after that day.  Cain had already been twisted with hate, but after that day, his hatred had... _mutated_ into something else.  Charles had told only Raven what happened (Mother would have been to drunk too care, so he didn't bother), warning her to _never_ , under any circumstances, be alone with Cain (for obvious reasons, he’d simply told the cook’s son to watch his back around the older boy).

     Cain had left a few months later to join the Army.  He had never returned to the mansion.  At least, Charles hadn’t thought so—apparently he’d been mistaken.  Either Raven hadn’t mentioned it (which he doubted)...or she hadn’t known he’d been in the house.

 

 

     “Raven!” Charles pounds on her door. “Raven!” He walks into her room and jerks the covers off of her. “Raven!  Wake up.  We’re leaving.”  Ignoring her groggy protests, he grabs her overnight bag and starts cramming in clothing.  “I said, _‘Get up!_ ’  We’re leaving.   _Now!_ ”

     “Char–Charles!  What are you doing?  What’s wrong?”  He ignores her, goes into her bathroom and sweeps all of her toiletries off of the counter, into the bag.  “Get dressed!  Let’s go!”

     “Charles!  Charles, what’s wrong?!  You’re scaring me!”

     Pausing only to make a visual sweep of the room, he answers, “Cain.  Cain’s been in the house.”

     “ _Oh my God!_   When?!”

     “I don’t know.  I just know that he...” Charles has to swallow, before he can continue, “he.... _vandalized_ my bedroom.”

    _“What?!”_ Before he can stop her, Raven darts past him, running toward Charles’s room.

     He races after her. “Raven, NO! Don’t go in there!”

     But he’s too late.  Seconds later, he hears vomiting, and she comes stumbling out of the room.  Charles hates the look on her face—she looks so vulnerable and lost.

     “Why?” she asks, sounding very young and confused.  “Why did he do that?”

     “I don’t know, Raven.”

     “I can sort of understand him destroying your stuff, because I thought he hated you.  But the...the _other_?”  The blue scales on her face ripple as her face squinches up with disgust.  “The other...I thought that was when you liked someone...” then she starts crying.

     Charles pulls her into a hug, rocking her and stroking her hair.  “Cain’s mind is not right.  You know that, love.  There’s no rhyme or reason why he does the disgusting things he does.  Don’t think about it, anymore, Raven.  Let’s just leave here and never come back.  We’ll go away and be happy for once.”

       _He doesn’t realize that he’s crying, too._

 

 

     What Charles wanted more than anything was to pack his and Raven’s few belongings, throw _everything_ else out for the rubbish collectors, then close up the place for good and head back to Oxford—never to return.  But the time when Charles Francis Xavier was free to do what he wanted is past.  Not that he’s ever really been free, except for those first precious years at Oxford.

     Now he has responsibilities.

 

     Raven's migraine had come roaring back to life, to the point where Charles was nearly incompacitated from her pain and finally had to call a doctor to give her a shot of something to ease it off.  She is now safely ensconced in her own room at Charles’s hotel, relaxing and enjoying room service.   

     Charles is in _his_ hotel room, on the phone with the estate’s managers making arrangements for a security team to come in ASAP and do a sweep of the mansion to make sure there were no more surprises (that Cain is not hiding somewhere).  Then he is having all the locks changed on the all of the doors and all of the windows, and a state-of-the-art security system installed: _“Then_ get _the bloody floor plans!”_ Charles is shouting. _“ I don’t care if you have to tear the place down the bare studs—I want every_ inch _of that fucking mausoleum checked from top to bottom, from the basement sub-cellar to the tips of the weather vanes!  There better not be so much as a cockroach getting in that place without a security clearance!!  Am I and my BILLIONS of dollars making myself crystal fucking CLEAR!!!!?”_

 

     He slams down the receiver and flops down in his chair, running a shaking hand over his face.  He feels both like a child and like he's aged 10 years, overnight.  The estate managers and security contractors no doubt think that he’s a rich, arrogant little prick, but they don’t see how violently he is shaking (once reaction set in, he hasn’t been able to stop).  They don’t remember that he is just 18 years old.  They don’t know what Cain tried to do to him, why Charles is so very, very scared for both himself and Raven.

     And, in truth, he knows that he’s over-reacting.  Cain knows better than to hurt either of them, at least directly.  Charles had made very sure of that. Besides, it’s not like Charles is ever going back to that awful place again, except for his required annual visit (and even for _that_ , he can simply plant the _suggestion_  to the staff that he has been there).  There were ever only two things he wanted from that place, anyway.

     One is coming with him back to Oxford.  

     And the other..well, the other is gone forever.   _I never got to say goodbye—not that he would have heard me. I never even knew his name._ Charles allows himself a moment to grieve for something he never had anyway, then starts packing his bags to go home to Oxford.

 


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says...

US Naval Vessel, Undisclosed Location at Sea, 1963...

 

 

        _“Charles!!! Charles, NOOOOO!!!!_ ”

 

 

Ignoring Raven's scream, Charles breaks free from her grip and recklessly dives off the side of the ship into the ocean, intent only on saving the man whose mind shone to him like a beacon, so bright that he is blinded to everything else.  He forgets that he is just a scientist, that he is a mutant, even that he is a man caught up in a top-secret CIA operation.  He wants only to ease the sense of despair and hopelessness radiating from that brilliant mind, will do anything to keep that light from fading.  

 

_ <<Calm yourself, my friend.  You are not alone.>>  _he projects.

 

 Shocked, the drowning man does calm, and allows Charles to pull him to the surface of the ocean where, they are hauled onboard the ship deck to safety.  

 

Once on board, wrapped in a blanket and a cup of hot tea in his hands, a shivering and exhausted Charles finally gets a look at the man he’d just risked his own life to save...and feels a shock of recognition when he finds himself staring into a pair of hauntingly familiar, gray-green eyes and a face that has never truly been far from his thoughts.

 

     "Oh, my God!" Charles breathes out.  "It's you!"


End file.
